


Q & A

by Somekindofflower



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, christmas isn’t canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2019-08-02 06:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16299755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somekindofflower/pseuds/Somekindofflower
Summary: It's not romantic....It's notunromantic, either.Lucy and Flynn develop a routine during their nighttime chats. She's allowed one loaded question and he's allowed one loaded apology.They both have a lot of unloading to do, and it's better to do it together.





	1. Did you ever...?

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Timeless.
> 
> "When you had the mothership and Emma was your pilot..."
> 
> "Yeah?"
> 
> "Did you two ever...?"

Flynn and Lucy develop a routine once they’re in the new compound, hidden away in the Oregon wilderness. Not every night, but most nights, Lucy ends up in Flynn’s room. On the floor, or the chair, or the bed, talking. 

Just talking, whatever Rufus and Jiya might tease her about, or Wyatt might grumble about.

At first, she brings drinks, but after the fourth or fifth time, she drops the pretense. It’s no longer about unburdening herself, or a last-ditch effort to keep control of an unhealthy impulse to drink alone. Frankly, Lucy just wants to be there. She likes Flynn, feels more herself in his presence than in her own, and well, he IS the easiest to talk to. He’s her best friend—though the word _friend_ doesn’t sound like enough, not with how anchored he makes her feel or how he looks at her.

It’s not romantic.  


…It’s not _un_ romantic, either.

At first, back in the bunker, it was like he was a stranger who weirdly knew too much of her. Once she’d given him a chance, though, she’d been surprised at how good a listener he was, how understanding and nonjudgmental he could be. Through his focused attention and how much of himself he shares with her, she realizes part of what it is that draws her to him over and over again. 

She’d thought before that Flynn was frustrated with her, trying to prove how well he knew her from the journal, trying to show her how wrong she’d been not to trust him from the start. It wasn’t about proving her wrong, though, it was just…he likes knowing her, likes her. He actually wants to know her, to be her friend, wants her to let him in.

For somebody who isn’t even sure she wants to know herself at this point, that is everything. 

Lucy thinks that she knows him, too, or at least she’s getting there. She does know the soul of him, the core of who he is better than anyone (at least anyone alive), but that’s not saying a lot since pretty much everyone gets him all wrong. It happened in a reverse fashion, due to their heightened situation, and she is learning him from the inside out instead of the outside in. Flynn knows her, too, but he knows her both inside and out, thanks to their late-night talks as well as the journal. She suspects he knows even more than he lets on, but it doesn’t bother her like it used to, except that she wishes it went both ways.

As much pleasure as she takes in being the only person alive allowed to know his heart, to see his vulnerable moments, she wants to know his details, too.

 

\-----------------

 

After the mission they had today, the scrapes and bruises she earned courtesy of Emma—plus her bruised knuckles courtesy of the blows Lucy had landed herself, she recalls with no small amount of pride—Flynn isn’t surprised at the vodka bottle in her hands when she shows up for their late night chat. He smiles at her gently as he goes to sit at his desk and Lucy flops on the bed with a knowing smile at his gentlemanly ways. If he thinks she doesn’t notice that he always takes the chair when there’s alcohol involved, instead of his usual perch on the other side of his bed, he’s wrong.

If he’s surprised at how inquisitive she is, or how quickly she downs the first two glasses, he hides it well. He probably knows that something has been bothering her since she and Emma had their tussle. Emma had made a remark that got to Lucy (got her that bruise on her ribs, too, thanks to how thrown she’d been), and she HAS to know the truth. Trying to hide it in the midst of a flurry of other questions, she ends up tossing it out tipsily after he answers “what was your first pet?”. It probably isn’t the best way to prevent him from realizing just how important his answer is to her, but oh well. 

“When you had the mothership and Emma was your pilot…”

“Yeah?” Flynn squints at her pause and change in the subject and Lucy flushes. She knows she doesn’t have a right to know, but what Emma said about Lucy apparently getting her own ‘taste of him’ has stuck in her mind like a burr. The mental pictures and wondering have been torturing her ever since. 

“Did you two ever…?”

“Did we what? _Oh._ ” His eyebrows shoot up in shock and his head snaps back as he comprehends the question. “No. NO. We did NOT.” His hands join in his denial as he throws them out to the side.

“Okay.” Lucy shrugs as though it was simply idle curiosity that led her to ask.

“Why… _why on earth_ would you think we had?!” Flynn is seriously freaked out, and she ought to feel bad, but she can’t. She’s too full of relief.

“Just…Rufus told me about how you acted so betrayed when we went back to 1919. Then she said something today about ‘getting a taste’ of you, and…I don’t know. I mean, you didn’t know what she was. You thought she was helping you, and it would be like her…to take advantage if she thought it would help her cause.”

Lucy feels the last drop of concern evaporate when he blanches at the ‘taste’ remark. His cheeks are pink now, rivalling her own, as she finally stops babbling and trails off into the awkward silence.

“Never mind. I’m sorry for asking, I was just curious and…I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Flynn runs a hand over his face. “No, Lucy, it’s fine. You just caught me off guard. I had no idea you thought that. I know so much about you without this you telling me, it’s not that it’s too personal, it’s just…I mean thank God I didn’t. It never even crossed my mind, never would have, and that’s setting aside all her evil psychopath Rittenbitch tendencies.”

It is so near to the tip of Lucy’s tongue to ask why it didn’t cross his mind…if he intends to never again…well…but she catches herself just in time. One inappropriate boundary crossed per night is probably plenty, even for her and Flynn. A giggle slips out as she watches him shakily pour a full measure of the vodka and gulp it down. He wipes his mouth as he gives her a wry smile.

“I’m going to have to drink that image out of my head now, thanks to you.”

“Sorry,” she scrunches her nose in apology and at the picture that’s now popped back into her own mind. Too bad she didn’t hit Emma harder. Or kick her. Or bite…or maybe she’s getting a little overly violent now that she’s getting trained in combat. But, it’s Emma, so maybe not.

Flynn sighs heavily and she looks at him to see he is staring down into the glass dejectedly.

“I do need to apologize for that, though. I’m sorry.”

Lucy is at sea. “Sorry for…?”

“For Emma. For…unleashing her on the present, handing her the mothership. Anthony had told me about her. Your journal didn’t name her, not specifically anyway, but I had sort of lost faith. Temporarily, in you.” She sits up, putting her glass down, but Flynn holds a hand up to stop her from interrupting. “Not _your_ fault, Lucy, don’t you dare say you’re sorry. But that’s…a different apology that I probably haven’t earned the right to say yet.”

Lucy feels the frown pull at her face as Flynn rakes his hand over his own. It hurts to think of him like that, but he’s right that it isn’t her fault, even though her default is to apologize. In some ways she wishes that she had believed him sooner, but the way he’d gone about it, and with the information she had at the time, it wasn’t going to happen. All she’d gone through was probably necessary to get her here, and while here certainly isn’t where she really wants to be, at least she’s fighting the right people and she’s not a fugitive. Not a fugitive from the government, anyway, like she would have been if she’d joined him back then. He’s wrong, though, he can say whatever he wants to her now, but she isn't going to demand anything. She knows he’s sorry and doesn’t need an apology, she doesn’t think, although it might be nice to hear. She also gets that he might need to give it anyway.

“About acting betrayed…I mean, that’s sort of my knee-jerk reaction, as you’ve experienced, unfortunately. But with Emma, I told her way too much. About Lorena and Iris, about…about you. I didn’t say anything about meeting future you or about the journal, because I didn’t tell any of them all about it, but I’m sure she got some idea of what it was. And my guys, they kept deserting out of the blue. I’m not sure if she paid them off, threatened them, or killed them, but one by one they were gone. Instead of seeing it, I just leaned on her more. So foolish of me.”

“Why do you think you did trust her so much?”

He winces a little and finishes another glassful. “Emma’s good at her job, you know that already. She had Connor, Anthony, and Rufus all fooled, too, for years. The rest of my men, other than Anthony, they were soldiers. I had to keep a distance from them. She had a story about her own family, what Rittenhouse did to them…no idea if it’s true or not, but I believed her, and it gave us common ground. And then—“ he bites his lip and shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“What?” Lucy can’t help but push. It feels too important.

Flynn traces the rim of his empty glass before pouring again. He knocks it back before licking his lips and mumbles something she can’t hear. Lucy scoots off the bed and hops up on the desk, bumping his knee on her way and staring down at his head, slightly lower than hers as he’s in the desk chair. “You weren’t there,” he finally mutters. 

Lucy tilts her head in confusion. “I know, that’s why I’m asking—“

“No, I talked to Emma…” his cheeks are bright pink as he slowly explains, staring at her shins. “…because you weren’t there.”

“Oh.” Lucy’s own cheeks flush as she realizes he means he wished she had been there, maybe even...missed her...and she feels touched and a little guilty at that. Her heart hammers as she recognizes that this is the closest he’s come to admitting…whatever it is he might admit to her, one day, about how he feels. 

It’s also heartbreaking, how lonely he must have been, that his best friends in the world were a book from a virtual stranger and freaking _Emma Whitmore_.

After a breath to compose herself, she takes her leg and nudges his knee gently until he finally looks up at her, cheeks still a bit pink.

“I’m here now.”

“You are,” Flynn says, and his gaze turns tender.

“We can talk about whatever you want.”

“Yeah? Even if it’s to give you apologies you claim not to need?”

“Anytime,” she smiles and feels it widen as he beams at her like she has hung the moon, and it makes her feel like maybe she could. “Maybe stick to one per night, though.”

“Hmm. If you agree to only one loaded question per night, it’s a deal.”

Looking up at the ceiling, she laughs. “I’ll get started on my list, then.”

His brow furrows as she looks back to him. “List? How many loaded questions do you have for me?”

She feels her lips twitch as she tilts her head. “How many loaded things did I tell you in the journal?”

Flynn’s look turns shy as it flicks away and her heart squeezes. “A lot, I guess. It’s not like I…counted.”

Lucy takes pity on him. He’s been so vulnerable with her tonight, and she’s grateful enough not to press her advantage. Well, not too much. “It’s a deal then.” She grabs the vodka bottle from his hand. “And I’m going to take this, I think you’ve had enough. I’m going to bed.” Placing a hand on his left shoulder, she hops off the desk. He reaches up a hand to steady her by the elbow as she wobbles. Her hand squeezes his shoulder and she feels his hand tighten on her arm, as they look at each other for a tense moment that she almost wants to stay in. Almost.

“Goodnight,” she pulls away and heads to the door, feeling his warm gaze still on her.

“Goodnight, Lucy.”


	2. Blame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you still mad at me for Christopher putting you in prison?"
> 
> Lucy and Flynn decide to unwind after a difficult mission by discussing some heavy things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, tentatively dipping my toe back into the Garcy pool. Maybe here to stay? We'll see. 
> 
> (It is a saltwater pool, just FYI.)

He’s such an idiot. Every time Flynn thinks they’re getting ahead and he lets himself hope, something like this happens.

He whips off his 1910s belt and chucks it roughly across the room, where it makes a loud thwack as it hits a book on his desk. He’s so sick of losing.

Emma had led them on a goose chase to western Canada in 1913 and they still had no idea what she’d been doing. Wyatt thinks she was getting them out of the way while Rittenhouse tinkered with the present somehow. Privately, Flynn agrees. Or that she’s trying to wear their team down, to find and exploit their weaknesses. If it is the latter, she is probably succeeding.

Playing defense is all well and good, but when your team is already down by a sizable margin, it’s time to go on the offensive. Christopher had disagreed when he had pointed this out, rather loudly.

At least, she had disagreed when Flynn had said it. When Lucy and _Wyatt_ had chimed in, however…

So he had broken a few laws, give or take. He was still the one who had been fighting the actual bad guys the whole time. If he hadn’t, Rittenhouse would have both timeships now. If he hadn’t fought the team from the beginning, he’d be dead. Is that what it’s going to take for them to trust him? The enemy of their enemy has to take one for the team in order to get redemption? How unimaginative.

A quick shower later, he is at least past the urge to throw things. But for the first time, he’s hoping Lucy doesn’t show up. He doesn’t want her to see him like this. She’s the sole one who does seem to fully trust him now. How far that goes, he isn’t sure, though. If he thunders and rages and generally acts like the dumpster fire (Jiya’s phrase, which he has to privately admit is apt) he’d been when they were on different sides...he doesn’t want to scare or upset her is all.

No such luck, though. A few minutes later, Flynn is crookedly spread out on his bed, a book lying face down on his chest, staring unseeing at the ceiling. There’s a knock at the door, followed by a turn of the knob which proves that it’s Lucy. The others rarely even deign to so much as knock. They would never come in without permission. It’s wise on their part, especially with how he feels tonight.

Her bit lip and the way her eyes are darting to the side tells him she’s unsure of her reception, and he can’t help but try to smile to relieve her. The flip flop of his heart contradicts his earlier wish for isolation. If anyone needs proof that a broken, twisted killer’s heart can learn to love again, well, he’s exhibit A. Not that Flynn hadn’t tried to fight it, but it’s _Lucy._ There was never a chance of him resisting her and he had finally surrendered to that truth. Not that he’s happy about it. It’s not like she’s going to love him back, but being her friend, the one she turns to at least for the moment, well. It doesn’t suck. Even as he feels like a jackass for loving someone other than the wife who died because of him. Even as he knows it’s going to lead to his own heartbreak down the line.

Her eyes finally meet his as she perches gingerly in the edge of the bed. “Well...that sucked.”

Flynn lets out a humorless laugh. “Yes, it did. I mean, I’m glad we didn’t get shot at this time, but…”

“But we have no idea what she did. _I_ have no idea what she did.”

Sitting up, he sighs. “It’s not all on you. There’s more than just history going on here. Even with the history, you can’t possibly know everything that has ever happened in the entire world.”

“Yeah,” she groans, unconvinced.

Flynn isn’t up to a pep talk tonight. His own demons are far too present. He bites back a groan of his own, but she surely hears his frustration.

“You have to stop blaming yourself. Aside from it being utterly ridiculous for you to make everything your fault, it’s unproductive.”

It’s damn annoying, too. He loves Lucy, but that doesn’t mean he has to like everything she does, especially when she’s giving into self-destructive tendencies.

“I know, I just...every piece of this fight comes back to either me or my family. It seems like I should be able to make sense of it, to stop it somehow. I even brought you into the whole mess and then blamed you for it all.”

Her words make him squirm, so he gives the only rebuttal he can. “Lucy...if you hadn’t, I’d be dead.”

What she’s saying is uncomfortably close to thoughts he’s had before. It’s not untrue, not exactly. That doesn’t make it her fault. He’s also not going to get into a discussion of future Lucy vs. present Lucy. That way lies madness, he knows all too well.

Turning, he stares at her in the silence. Her face is bare, revealing the circles under her red-rimmed eyes. Dark, damp waves of hair are curling against the floral print of her favorite silk robe, which is slipping off her shoulder.

It hurts to look at her, she’s so beautiful.

“Do you—“ her voice cracks and she clears her throat, but the rest is barely a whisper. “Are you still mad at me for Christopher putting you in prison?”

Well, shit. She’s apparently spent these moments quietly stewing over what other sins he might still be holding against her. Not that his past-self had done him any favors in this instance. He stifles a sigh. It should be obvious he’s over any animosity. It’s why he tries to always be soft with her now, though he is all too aware of his ever-present jagged edges. She always needs reassurance that she’s wanted, that she’s enough. Damn Carol Preston.

“Lucy, I…”

She blanches at that start and he rushes to clarify.

“No. I don’t.”

“But...you said…”

“I know what I said. I was lashing out in hurt and anger, and I forgot. I used to get very mixed up about you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry. I think I got it mostly straight while I was in prison—you vs. the you from the journal. Then I still forgot sometimes. It wasn’t fair to you, putting those expectations on you, trying to make you into that version of yourself.” He winces at the thought—that had been his biggest error, perhaps, being yet another to try to dictate her actions. As if she were a pawn in a sadistic game of chess.

“I should have suspected she might try something, though. I didn’t notice anything. I was so giddy, I thought we had won...I was so naïve.”

Oh, Flynn can relate. He had let his own guard down. It had been so exhilarating that Lucy had actually trusted him, had actually helped him, that he forgot to be his paranoid self and warn her to check for a tail. It had made the perceived betrayal all the worse because it seemed she had exploited his weakness—her. There had been plenty of time to stew about it in prison. He’d spent much of it feeling betrayed and then defending her for betraying him. The way she had looked when it happened, however, he’d eventually had to admit she wasn’t in on it.

“I did the same. I was a spy, Lucy. I know I expect...I see what you’re capable of, and part of that is the journal. Part of it is just you. But I forgot that capability isn’t the same as knowledge, as skill and experience. You were a civilian, and I didn’t tell you how to check.”

She looks perilously close to tears, and he can’t bear to see her cry. He’s not keen to join in, either, either, and he might if she starts.

“I wanted you to get your family back.”

Flynn closes his eyes against the multitude of emotions that flood him at that and tries to shove them back down. “I don’t blame you for that. Emma wouldn’t have let me get them back anyway. She’d have killed me too.”

The memory still hurts. Lucy had been the only person he had trusted and he’d been blindsided. A soft hand lands on his forearm and he turns to find her face inches from his own.

Lucy’s tactile, he’s always known that—his cheek burns at the memory of her kiss on it the night he’d first met her—but she never really had been since, not with Flynn. Not until after Chinatown. Before, he had always been the one to touch her, and it had mostly been tactical (or what he could excuse as tactical). A helping arm in the past when it would be ungentlemanly to not escort a lady, a hand on the small of her back to sell their fake marriage (never mind that he was usually the one claiming said marriage), holding her in Chinatown...anyway. Since then, she touches him, and it’s wreaking havoc on his heart.

“I’m still sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he answers, desperate to ease any of the pain he can see glimmering in her eyes. “You got me out as soon as you could. I know it was all you.”

He doesn’t ask, but she answers anyway.

“Yeah, I bugged Denise and came up with excuses until she finally caved, after I got, um, back. But before...I went to yell at her after they took you, and I tried to get her to pull you out. She told me it was time to go get Amy back, and I...I decided to let it go until after. I stupidly went to tell my mom goodbye and everything went to hell.”

Flynn swallows. “If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have needed to get her back in the first place. Don’t beat yourself up for trying, okay? I’m so very sorry, Lucy.”

“Journal me had to know, and she still sent you to the Hindenburg. And anyway...you didn’t mean for it to happen. I know that.”

“But I still—“ 

“Flynn, I forgive you. Just...shut up for once and take it, alright?”

Her golden-brown eyes are still sad, but she’s smirking a little at him and he can’t stop his lips from curling up in relief as some of the weight on his chest lifts. He had no idea she had been upset about his arrest or anything else, but it was so Lucy that he should have expected it.

A deep sigh escapes her then, and she slumps against the wall behind the head of his bed, looking as world-weary as Flynn feels. Hopefully they are done with the heavy topics for the evening. It makes his arms ache to hold her when she looks like this, like being next to him on his bed is her one refuge in the world. It would be safer to change the subject and get back to solid ground, but he’s at a loss tonight.

Lucy takes the decision out of his hands. Her slim arm slides around his and she hugs it to herself, pressing herself against his shoulder. She can surely hear his heart drumming double time—it’s pounding in his own ears. He breathes shallowly until he finally wills his body to relax.

She changes the subject, and they chat about silly things for a while. Their sore spots are always close, though; so many of their stories involve the people they miss. After a while he relaxes against her warmth in earnest, even though he knows he won’t ever grow numb to the feel of her.

“Thanks, Flynn.” He can feel her words vibrate through his arm, and it shouldn’t feel so intimate, but it does.

“For what?”

“I was really depressed tonight. And we talked about some hard things, but I feel lighter. You’re good at that, at talking to me.”

He can’t help but scoff at that and smirk. “I have it on very high authority—yours—that I am terrible at talking to you.”

“Well...you...learned, I guess? I feel a lot better.” She’s lying about him being good at this, but it warms his heart that she tries.

“You’re welcome. And me too.”

Wanting to kiss her isn’t new, but routinely being close enough to do it is. He can’t go there, but he does allow himself to slowly press his cheek to the top of her head. It’s right under his face, right there, and he’s tired. But she doesn’t move as he fears she will.

They sit there for a few more minutes in half-content, half-awkward silence before she goes to find her own bed. As he lies there in the dark, head on the pillow that still smells like her, Flynn realizes, dammit, he’s starting to hope.

He’s such an idiot.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!


	3. What's in a Name?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Does it bother you that we call you by your last name?"

“I don’t know. The last time we did this, you definitely apologized more than once.”

Lucy quirks an eyebrow at Flynn over her mug of tea. She’s sitting cross-legged toward the foot of the bed, as he’s leaning back against the headboard. 

“I…” the wheels visibly turn as he searches for an argument before giving up. “Only because more things...came up. Are you going to hold that against me?”

“Hmm.” Lucy purses her lips and playfully cocks her head. 

They haven’t done the heavy conversation thing in a couple of weeks, though they’ve still spent most evenings together. It’s almost like she can’t help herself. It’s funny--he’s the one person she hasn’t ever worried about bothering. Even when they were on opposite sides, he was more than happy to see her, even to argue with her. 

It’s his idea this time, at least. But the last time had been raw and painful for them both. While they’re both in a better frame of mind this time, she’s not so sure...but dammit, there is something that’s been bothering her. Flynn must sense her weakening, because he presses his advantage.

“Will it help my case if I point out that you also apologize every time we do this, even though you’re supposed to be the one asking questions?”

Lucy sighs. “I know. It’s always been a bad habit.”

One that Amy hated—she had blamed Carol, and she’d been right. Their mother had bred her to comply and it had worked. Well, to a point. When it counted, it had failed. Now Lucy was stuck trying to sort out which pieces of herself were actually her, rather than hand-crafted for Rittenhouse.

“You okay?” Flynn’s voice snaps her out of her reverie and she shakes it off.

“Yeah, just could you point out when I do it? I’d like to...stop.”

“Okay.” He nods, but he’s still looking at her with a little too much care. She doesn’t want to wallow in that for the moment, though. She knows what she needs to ask. 

“I’ve decided that your penance should be that I get two questions.”

Flynn rolls his eyes. “Like you ever stick to just one anyway.”

“The deal is one BIG question. Of course that comes along with satellite questions.”

He smirks at her, but she can see a slight waver in his eyes, like he isn’t completely sure about this. She almost tells him she’ll be gentle.

“Alright. Go ahead.”

“Does it bother you that we all call you by your last name?”

Surprise and relief at the question sweep across his face. 

“No, I...no.”

“Are you sure? The rest of us all go by our first names, and I don’t want you to think that means you aren’t part of the team.”

A huff and shrug is his response, until she shoots him a look to let him know she needs more, to which he lifts his hands. She doesn’t want him to feel like he’s forever branded as a criminal in their eyes. The others might not consider him quite part of the family yet, not completely, but they’re all coming around. Wyatt’s never going to love him, but even he can’t say much against Flynn anymore. Lucy hopes it’s because he’s grown as a person, but...it may be more that he knows they’ll call him out on his hypocrisy about Jessica if he complains about Flynn. 

“Look, I haven’t really thought about it much. I’ve been in the military, well, a few of them, and then worked with the NSA—it’s the norm. You do it often with Christopher, too, you know.”

“Yeah, I guess,” she acknowledges as she deflates. 

It’s true enough, Lucy supposes. But it doesn’t answer the real question that she’s too scared to ask: does it bother him that _she_ calls him by his last name?

“Plus, Garcia is a weird enough first name in America. Imagine growing up in Yugoslavia. I mostly got called Flynn or some nickname. Flynn was usually preferable.”

Lucy snorts as she tries to picture him as a teenager. It’s hard to imagine because he’s always been so graceful and larger-than-life in his own melodramatic fashion. But growing up he’d probably stuck out like a sore thumb, what with his American mother, his weird name, and his height. Then he’d gone to war at such a young age. As soon as he’d gotten a chance for a sort of break from the violence, Rittenhouse happened. The thought makes her want to hold him.

“What’s your second question?”

She swallows against the nerves that well up in her throat. He’s said Flynn is fine, so maybe she should let it go. But even if it’s fine for the others, it feels wrong for her. 

“What?” He urges again.

“May I...would you mind if _I_ called you Garcia?”

Ugh, her face is so hot it probably matches his favorite sweater, which she’s staring at, since she isn’t brave enough to look him in the face. It shouldn’t seem like such a huge request, not with how close they’ve become. But it feels like forcing him to acknowledge it. And maybe he wants his name to be something saved for his former self, something for Lorena.

“No,” he finally answers in a hoarse whisper.

No? What does that mean? No, she can’t call him that or no, he doesn’t mind? She chances a look at him and finds that his eyes look bright, but he blinks and they’re clear. It could be her imagination.

She doesn’t think it is. 

“I don’t mind. That is, you can...I’d like for you to call me by my name. When you want to.”

The warmth from her chest blooms outward until she can’t hold back her smile. Flynn—though she wants to call him Garcia, she knows he’ll probably be Flynn in her mind for a while—returns it shakily. He clears his throat and changes the subject somewhat, telling her about growing up in Croatia.

Apparently, no one ever picked on him about his name. Not _twice_ anyway. Color Lucy surprised.

By the time midnight rolls around, she knows she has to leave, or she’s going to fall asleep here. Flynn looks warm and sleepy, and she finds herself longing to stretch right out next to him. He wouldn’t mind, except he would sleep in the chair and feel it for a week. When— _if_ —they ever do sleep in the same bed, she would prefer him to be next to her. And she would like to be sure it means more than that she’s passed out from exhaustion.

Lucy jumps off the bed before she loses her motivation to leave. She gives him a hug, a quick squeeze, before she can stop herself. He’s only just started to respond when she pulls back, and she pauses, extremely aware of his hands clutching her waist over her shirt.

“Goodnight, Garcia.”

She whispers it before pulling away, a little afraid of seeing his reaction. Afraid of the intensity of her own reaction. She can feel every one of his fingers dragging against her waist as she pulls away slowly.

“Goodnight, Lucy.”

He whispers it back, and it sounds so normal, but when she looks at him, he’s glowing. No one has ever looked at her the way he does, like she's precious but also amazing. In that moment, it hits her how much she wants him to never stop. 

But oh, so much could go wrong. She can't lose what they have. 

A voice that sounds a bit like Amy’s asks her: “but what could go right?”

A step at a time, perhaps. If there’s any hope for this going better than it had with Wyatt, it’s in going slow and making sure. And in the fact that her heart tells her that while the situations are similar, the man is not.

She fumbles with the door and makes herself go, before she can’t.


	4. Sickness, Cheating, and the Tangled Web of Time Travel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flynn cares for a sick Lucy who suddenly decides she needs to know the differences between their memories of the Wyatt Situation.

Flynn stares at Lucy’s door before lightly rapping with his knuckles. When she doesn’t answer, he considers returning to his room, but he’s worried. She’d been dead on her feet the last time he’d seen her, hours ago, and he wants—needs, really—to make sure she’s okay. They’re friends now (even if that word is woefully insufficient), and surely it’s allowable to poke his head in to check on her?

Thus decided, he enters as silently as possible. She’s lying on her bed, on her stomach, damp hair spilling messily all around her as she breathes noisily enough to make him cringe. It looks like she’d come straight from the shower, thrown on her pajamas and collapsed face first. He eyes the armchair in the corner. Maybe he can camp there for the night? In case she needs anything. It’s no problem to move the clothes and books haphazardly thrown on there, though her untidiness makes him smile.

Lucy coughs painfully. She told them earlier that it’s only a cold. But she always understates her own discomfort, afraid of troubling anyone. As if he’s capable of seeing her as more burden than blessing.

“You can come over here as long as you don’t say ‘I told you so’.”

Flynn starts at being caught out, then crosses over to her and crouches next to the bed. She rolls to face him, batting her hair back out of her face.

“I hate to be an ‘I told you so,’ Lucy, you know that.”

She snorts in response, rolling her eyes as she hefts herself up and leans against the headboard.

“I call bullshit. You love saying you told me so. Anyway, saying you hate to say it is the same thing as saying it.”

Eh, maybe she has a point.

“Either way, I didn’t come here for that, or to wake you up. I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“I’m fine,” she responds automatically before falling into a fit of coughing.

Flynn hands her the glass of water from her bedside table and can’t help smirking.

“You were saying?”

“Okay, I feel terrible. I’m exhausted. I’ve barely slept the past couple nights because I keep coughing and I can’t breathe. Happy?”

He frowns at her.

“Of course not, that’s why I wanted you to keep your distance from that contact. He was clearly sick.”

“He had the information we needed, and I got it, didn’t I? How is that any different from you running headfirst into a fight, Garcia?”

That will never get old or fail to soften him, and Lucy probably knows that and is playing dirty. She's almost right. It’s not that different, especially since colds are less deadly than bullets, but Flynn is so much less important than she is to this war. Not since 1865 has it ceased to shock him how she’ll throw herself into a fight with such little regard for her own safety. The thought of that night sends a shiver down his spine. He was so terrified. He still has to apologize for that one, but now is probably not the time.

“Need anything?”

“You don’t have to…I’ll be alright.”

“I know I don’t _have to_ , Lucy, I’m offering. Tea? Soup?”

“Some tea would be nice. Thanks.”

As he leans against the kitchen counter, waiting for the kettle to whistle, Flynn shakes his head. It’s like pulling teeth to get this woman to ever admit she needs anything. She focuses so much on everyone else that the team expects it, and it’s too deeply ingrained for it to have begun there. He hates to bulldoze over her as others have done so often, but she’ll tell him off if he truly pisses her off. He’s not sure if that’s because she knows he’ll take it or because she still has anger toward him, or what, but he’s glad of it.

Perhaps seeing him at his worst has made her less afraid for him to see her at hers. Though she’s got quite a long way to fall before she’s rolling in the trash heap with him.

As soon as the water’s ready, he pours it into a mug. Not quite fast enough to avoid Wyatt, unfortunately, who comes into the kitchen just as Flynn is leaving.

“Didn’t take you for a peppermint tea guy, Flynn.”

“It’s for Lucy,” Flynn simply replies. Despite the hostile edge to the other man’s voice, at least his words are innocent enough. He’s honestly not trying to piss Wyatt off, but that’s no guarantee he won’t.

Wyatt scoffs, as though Flynn has thwarted his own nursing efforts, but the enormous sandwich he’s now making obviously isn’t for Lucy. It takes herculean strength for Flynn to ignore it, but he does, then he heads to Lucy’s room. The soldier’s been trying lately, supposedly, but the effort to get Jessica and their soon-to-be-born child back is wearing on him. As is Lucy’s steadfast refusal to return to their previous relationship. He’s trying not to show how proud he is of her for that—that could only backfire if and when she returns to him later—but she knows anyway.

As for his own relationship with Wyatt, they’re never going to like each other, that’s for sure. They’ve maintained an uneasy détente for the past few weeks. Much as Wyatt could benefit from a good ass-kicking, in Flynn’s opinion, it’s not worth what it would do to Lucy for him to take it upon himself. It would be beyond satisfying, though. He sighs, wistful at the thought.

Lucy’s scowling when he returns, though she gives him a half-smile when he comes in and hands her the mug. He isn’t sure if he should stay or if she’d prefer him to go. Maybe she wants to be alone when she’s sick. She has been holed up in here for two days, for the most part, after all. Plus, their nighttime, er, conversations, have always taken place in his room. It may be more comfortable for her that way, to come to him in her own time and on her own terms. But the thought of leaving her like this, of lying in his bed and listening to her cough again…since That Night, he doesn’t handle that well.

Maybe he can sneak back after she’s asleep and sit against her door. Hopefully that’s less creepy than it sounds in his head.

As all of this has gone through his mind, he’s been hovering awkwardly over Lucy, and she’s now staring up at him like she wants to know what the hell is going on.

“Uh, do you want company? Or…”

“Yes, please. I’m already bored and I’m not up to reading.”

Flynn turns toward the chair, but stops when she makes a sound in her throat. She’s patting the spot beside her on the bed when he turns back. Slipping off his shoes, he tries to hide his surprise at this development. She sits on his bed with him all the time, but this feels different, more presumptuous on his part. Then she flips down the covers for him to crawl in beside her and he can’t help but falter.

Lucy’s biting her lip in uncertainty. “I’m cold, so…if you don’t mind…”

Nodding, he wipes any hesitation from his own face and climbs in beside her. This bed’s a double, and he isn’t a small man, so it’s a production trying to fit without disturbing Lucy. He can’t help but think that the last time he’d done this was with Lorena, as his foot accidentally slides against her leg before settling into place. Really, he and Lucy have been closer than this, but being under her sheets with her feels altogether different.

He looks at her and grapples for words. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes bright, and he tells himself it’s her illness, but he knows it’s a lie. For the moment, at least, she feels it too.

Then she sneezes, barely catching it in time with her elbow, and her brow furrows as she searches for an uncrumpled tissue. He reaches around behind her to grab the box and pass it to her. Just as he’s about to pull his arm back from around her, she shivers and leans into his chest, and he about has a heart attack on the spot.

“Sorry, I’m freezing,” Lucy says by way of apology and he shoves down a small wave of disappointment. But alongside it is concern. If she has a fever, this is probably more than a simple cold. If Emma jumps while she’s sick and he has to leave her here, unprotected, he’s not sure he can. He lifts his hand to her forehead.

“You’re a little warm,” he rasps out as she leans into his touch and pulls his other arm tightly around her shoulder. Lucy’s apparently even cuddlier when she’s sick, rather than wanting to be alone. Oh, he’s in trouble. He pulls his hand back from her face before he does something very stupid.

“Did you run into Wyatt while you were making the tea?”

“Uh, yeah. Why?”

“Oh, just, he came by here. Sorry if he was…rude.”

Flynn snorts at her. “Because we’re normally so chummy?”

“No, but, well…he wanted to talk and I told him I didn’t want to.”

Oh. Well, that explains Wyatt’s attitude at least. But feeling like he’s in the middle of their lovers’ spat isn’t comfortable. That label doesn’t really apply anymore, but still.

“I’m sorry if our, uh, friendship is causing you more trouble with him. I know it has before, and I’m sorry for when I’ve made it worse. I’m trying not to goad him, and I can…” He’s trying to make himself say that he’ll step back if she wants, but dammit, the words won’t come out.

“No,” Lucy, thankfully, interrupts. “I’m not giving up our friendship. I’d like to be friends with Wyatt again, but right now it’s not a good idea. He wants more. And if I wanted to be more…well, I…I would be.”

It's a relief that she doesn’t even consider letting him go. And…she doesn’t want to be with Wyatt. Does that mean she’s over him? He’s too scared to ask.

“Can you tell me about that?”

About his feelings about Wyatt and her? He’s not touching that with a ten foot pole.

“About…?”

“About Wyatt and me, in your timeline. You don’t remember Jessica being dead, right? So…it was different there.”

“Right.” Shit, he _really_ doesn’t want to do this. But he doesn’t know how to tell her no anymore.

“But…you knew that we’d been together. So, oh god…we still…even though he was still married?”

Her panic at this realization sets her coughing again, and Flynn waits, wishing he could help. She finally gets under control and sips her tea to calm her throat.

“Do you,” she clears her throat. “Do you know how long...?”

“No. The journal never really gave details or anything. I sort of gathered it from a couple stray remarks here and there. They were separated, so it wasn’t quite like you’re thinking. Maybe a month or two? The team would know more than me, I was in prison, so…”

“I don’t…I don’t want to ask them. God, they thought, this whole time…”

“Lucy, they—we—all know that things changed for you. No one is judging you for feelings that you have from a different reality.”

Flynn sifts through his own memories as she sits there lost in thought. His own experiences with Wyatt had allowed him to firmly place him in the “DICK” category, both before and after Jessica’s return. There has to be more to him, though. Flynn trusts Lucy and her decisions, and she cares for him. So much so that her journal self couldn’t let it go. Well…the journal self in the timeline where Jessica never died. Shit, that could all have changed and he wouldn’t even know. Too bad the journal is lost. He can’t trust his memories of it, because those would have changed as well. If that much can change, what about everything that came after that? Oh, he hopes…that could change everything. Maybe he can stop assuming everything will proceed as it had in the journal. He’ll need to give it some thought when he’s alone, but oh, it could be better. It could also be worse.

That had to be set aside for the moment. He had looked back over the mission reports for the team from when they’d been fighting him instead of Rittenhouse, the ones that Rufus stored in the Lifeboat. Not much of significance seemed to have changed, apart from when Wyatt stole the Lifeboat to change Jessica’s death (and if THAT didn’t make him want to deck Sergeant High Horse).

“God, a month or two, really?”

His stomach rolls. “Was it longer for you?”

“No. It was less. A lot less, it was only one night.”

“One…oh.” That’s better, maybe, less time to fall? Or no, maybe it’s actually worse. To think they’d started something, to sleep with him, and then have him immediately desert her and beg his wife to come back to him. No wonder she drank afterward.

“Yeah, we were on mission, we spent one night together, got back here and…”

He knows the rest of the story.

“How…never mind.”

“What?” Flynn turns to stare at her profile as she avoids looking back at him.

“I don’t think I should ask you this.”

“Lucy, come on.” Like they haven’t already been through everything. Or like he could ever refuse her anyway.

“I just…how was it easier for Wyatt to…be faithful to Jessica when she was dead than it is with her alive?”

The question knocks the breath out of Flynn.

“Sorry.”

“No, I told you to ask.” He gets why she didn’t want to ask now, but who else could give her an answer? It’s hard to figure out how to answer gracefully. Ugh, he has to put himself in Wyatt’s shoes.

“From the way she died, he probably had a lot of guilt, and that’s a pretty powerful motivator. Makes it harder to let go.” That he can completely relate to, and it hits him then, how much he and this Wyatt actually have in common, at least what they remember living through before.

The other part, though, the potential cheating? While Flynn fully understands the pull of Lucy, he can’t understand why that Wyatt didn’t wait for their divorce, which still hasn’t occurred here either. That had bothered Journal Lucy, too, and after he’d gone back to Jessica, she had felt used. In his own case, he knows Lorena is dead, and she has been for almost four years now. Even in the unlikely event that he can bring her back, he can’t GO back. Their marriage is over. Yet he _still_ feels some guilt over how much he wants Lucy. Lorena would say it’s misplaced, he knows. If she were alive and they were still married? He tries to imagine it and fails.

This Wyatt might actually be a better man than the one he’d originally known, and it makes him feel a little better about Lucy loving him. He can’t shake the feeling that she’ll go back to him, one day, if and when he ever gets his shit together. But he actually has a living wife, a _pregnant_ one. Yes, she’s in Rittenhouse, but she’s clearly conflicted, which means she cares about him still. That isn’t something that should be thrown away.

“That it? Nothing else?”

Is she trying to get him to complain about Wyatt so she can pick a fight? “I can’t really say anything else. She wasn’t alive at the time, and he hasn’t since, so…”

“But he might have. I…there were times I thought…not that he was hitting on me. But it seemed like it might have gone that direction.”

Flynn closes his eyes and bites his tongue. “Lucy, I don’t…I don’t think there’s much I should say, honestly. I’m sorry you’ve been in the middle of that mess. I don’t want to make it worse. I’m sorry you’ve been hurt so badly by all this.”

“I’m mostly okay now, you know. It’s just…it pisses me off that he expects me to have been just sitting here, waiting for him, like I owe him that. After one night. Maybe I should want to be with him, but I don’t. It hurts that he could throw me to the side like that and then pick me back up—like our friendship means nothing if he can’t have a romantic relationship with me. It makes me question my judgment.”

“Don’t—don’t do that. You, you’re so…you care about people unreservedly. I’d hate for you to lose that.”

Sure, he’d thought it was naïve before, and maybe it is. It’s one of the best things about her, though. It isn’t like he hasn’t benefited from her forgiving nature, either. Even before he met this version of her, he’d admired that about her, her willingness to love all out like that.

“Before, Garcia, I wasn’t asking…I know you would never have cheated on Lorena. That’s not like you.”

It’s true, but he’s now afraid of where this might be going. Because, oh, if she asks him, he doesn’t think he can lie.

Considering that she’s already fallen for a widower whose wife then came back from the dead, though...he’s not saying she’s falling for him. But the similarities can’t have escaped her, and, well, she should know it wouldn’t be the same.

“I, uh…no. I never cheated on her. But.”

She pulls back from her comfortable perch against his shoulder to raise her eyebrows at him.

“No, I mean, I never cheated on her, never would have. But, it IS different for me, so it’s hard for me to judge Wyatt. If Lorena were to come back, our marriage would still be over. It’s not the same.”

Lucy drinks her tea down to the dregs and sets the mug down before she answers. His heart knocks in his chest hard, and he knows they aren’t there yet, but if she ever does (God, _please_ ) return his feelings, she deserves to not have to worry about that. Not that she won’t anyway, because that’s her, but he can at least tell her this.

“So, what you said before, you would still do that?”

His heart aches at the thought, the longing, and he lets himself picture it before he shakes his head.

“I’d walk away, but I don’t think I could do it like that. I mean, I would have been gone so long by now, probably, and better for them to think I’m dead than for me to show up out of the blue and desert them.”

Her nails pierce his wrist where her fingers dig into his skin. “Don’t say that. I…I get what you’re saying, but I still mean what I said then, too. You can still be a father, Garcia.”

He turns to look at her and sees the shining tears in her eyes.

“It’s settled, Lucy. I get what you’re saying, too. Maybe there’s a way I could be there somehow for Iris. But Lorena…I know her, I know me, and there isn’t a way forward from that night for us. There just isn’t.”

It’s God’s honest truth. Not least because he’s in love with the woman he’s holding, but it was true before that. Lorena would never understand. If he didn’t tell her, it would come between them. If he did tell her, it would come between them. He’s gone through the fire and yes, he’s not aflame like he was before, but he’s changed, never to be quite the same again. He knows like he knows his own name that Lorena would never accept this version of him, and he can’t blame her for that.

Lucy huffs before settling against him again. “I guess I have to take your word on that.”

“I know you hate to do that, but yes, you do.”

“We’ll see.”

The topic is depressing, but her wanting to force him to believe he’s worthy of love is pure Lucy. It gives him hope. It still won’t change his mind, not about this, but he loves her even more for the attempt.

It’s only a couple of minutes later that he realizes she’s fallen asleep in his arms. He lets himself enjoy holding her and the exhilaration that she trusts him, not just to not kill her, not just to have her back against Rittenhouse. She trusts him with her secrets, with her sleep, with her weakness, with her most vulnerable moments. He can never, ever deserve that, but he treasures it all the more for it.

That’s why he won’t take advantage of it, as much as he longs to hold her all night.

He carefully disentangles himself from her, smoothly moving the pillow behind her head and laying her down against it. After making sure the tissues are right by her hand, he slips out from the covers and tiptoes toward the lamp.

“Garcia?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to stay?”

He freezes, and the shock must show on his face.

“I mean, not…I’ll be thrashing all night and I don’t want to keep you up, so it’s fine if you don’t. But I know I’m coughing and right next door you can probably hear, so…” She lets it trail off.

He should have known she’d recognize that in him. He used to hate how much she could see in him, but now it’s nice to have someone who knows him that way. She’s the only one who looks out for him, and it’s that that lets him answer honestly.

“If you don’t mind, uh, I can grab one of the old cots from the cellar. I’d sleep easier.”

“Mm, yeah. Better than the chair. Sounds good.” She’s drifting off again.

Neither of them sleep all that restfully, what with her tossing and turning, trying to breathe but not to cough. The sleep he does get, though, is free from nightmares, and his waking hours allow him to watch the moonlight from the window reflect off Lucy's shiny hair.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this got a little bit away from me thanks to my brain hurting from all the timeline differences that would have actually been there. Thus, enormous chapter. Thanks for reading!


	5. Restraint (or the Lack Thereof)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy flirts, Flynn flails, and they reminisce about Watergate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A non-angsty chapter. For the most part. Hooray!

They’re lounging on Flynn’s bed, nearing the end of McClintock, when Lucy decides to turn sideways and put her feet in his lap. She’s only paid half attention to the movie, preferring to share side conversations and watch Flynn. He’s a little different lately. There’s an openness to how he talks to her or just IS with her. It’s been that way ever since he took care of her when she was sick—when they talked about Wyatt and the differences in their timelines.

She can only really think of a couple reasons that conversation would change anything, and all of them make her insides squirm in anticipation. And not a small amount of uncertainty, too, if she’s honest. Sometimes that would be enough to make her hide, but she doesn’t really do that anymore, not with Flynn.

Lucy thinks, she isn’t positive, but it seems like he’s more flirtatious now, quicker to touch her. She’s not complaining, not a bit. As if he hears the thought, he runs a finger down the sole of her foot and looks mildly disgruntled when she doesn’t react.

“Not ticklish?”

“Nope.” Like hell is she telling him it’s her feet that aren’t ticklish, while her neck and sides are a different story. She pulls her feet back to her side of the bed.

“Ah, somewhere else then? Hmm.”

Has he advanced to reading her mind now?

“How do you know that? No way did I mention _that_ in the journal, what would be the point?”

“No, the journal didn’t tell me that. You just did.”

That roguish smirk has always been more endearing than it should be. He usually wears it when he’s being, well, more FLYNN than usual, and she spontaneously decides to startle it off his face.

“Did the journal tell you that I believed you before I admitted it?”

Flynn’s smirk dies as he stares at her for a moment.

“Um, no. I knew you would fight me at first and eventually believe me, but how long or how…that was basically all you, or…she…told me.”

He’s looking at her quizzically now, and she gets it. It’s something she’s always run from, the journal, but she knows she needs to start facing it. It’s easier to do it this way, to start with something small rather than to demand he tell her all of its secrets at once.

“When _did_ you believe me?”

“I mean, on some level, I wondered from the beginning. It IS my handwriting, and I felt this weird…I don’t know.” _Connection_ is the word for what she’d felt both to him and to the journal—a fraught, confusing, and painful connection—but a connection nonetheless. That’s a confession for another time. “But I think it was probably Watergate before I consciously admitted it to myself.”

The “WTF?!” look he gives her and the way he throws a hand out almost makes her laugh.

“Watergate? When I…how could that possibly have made you admit anything to yourself? Because of Nixon?”

“No, but I had never told the guys about _us_ , as you know.” She gives him a pointed look at that and he blushes and winces a little at the reminder of how he’d made it sound, trying to sow discord amongst their team. The blush shouldn’t be cute, but neither should anything about this giant, dramatic, somewhat hot mess of a spy/soldier and yet. “When Rufus was yelling at me about that—thanks for that, by the way—I realized it wasn’t that I didn’t believe it. It was that I didn’t want it to be true.”

“Why didn’t you want it to be true?”

Lucy bites her lip before looking up at him and then off to the side. “You’re not going to apologize for that?”

It was supposed to be a light, spur-of-the-moment question. She’s not trying to cast up unpleasant remembrances at him, and the explanation for “not wanting it to be true” checks every box on her mental list of things that will hurt him.

The corners of his mouth twitch. “Now that you don’t want to explain, you _want_ an apology, hmm? Alright, I _apologize_ for tricking you into fighting against Rittenhouse instead of for them.”

She shoves the sassy bastard’s arm. Wow, his bicep is…nice and solid, and her hand lingers for a second too long before dropping. It’s probably not okay to stroke his arm, right? Right. Oh, look, tea. Thank God it’s there on her nightstand, something to put in her hands so she doesn’t have to choose between sitting on them (which she’d have to explain, and wouldn’t THAT be fun) and running her fingers up under the hem of his t-shirt sleeve and along…

“Lucy? Are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah. I just spaced out for a second.”

A “sorry” is on the tip of her tongue, but she chokes it down. Maybe he didn’t notice, maybe her face isn’t as red as it feels. Besides, what would she be apologizing for? For being attracted to him? If so, he’s got more apologizing to do himself than she thought. She’s noticed the looks, she isn’t blind. That he might enjoy looking at her at least as much as she likes looking at him sends a pleasant zing down her spine.

“I was joking before, but I actually am sorry about…grabbing you, or having you grabbed, and restrained.”

His face falls, and she blurts out the first thing she can think of to pull him out of a spiral.

“It’s okay. It’s not like you’re the only one to ever have me tied up.”

Flynn eyes shoot wide and he freezes like he’s pretending to be a statue. Then she thinks back to what she said.

“Oh my gosh, NO, I mean, yes, but I, I meant…” Okay, now her face is _definitely_ as red as it feels. She takes a deep breath to calm herself. “I meant my mother, Rittenhouse, Emma.”

Unfortunately, he’s unfrozen now, and that gleam in his eye is too familiar.

“So, Emma, huh?” He cocks his head to the side and waggles his eyebrows.

That’s it, she pulls one of the pillows from behind her and hides.

“NO,” she crows emphatically, but it loses a lot of its edge from being muffled.

The bed shakes and she finally peeks an eye out to see Flynn covering his mouth, convulsing with quiet laughter. When he sees her peering at him through one sheepish eye, he gives up and lets it out. She’s heard him chuckle before, but she’s never seen him laugh like this, full-bodied and loud.

All embarrassment drains out of her as she drops the pillow to watch him and sees the man he was before, the one he thinks is gone. It’s beautiful and she doesn’t even care if it’s at her expense. It takes a couple minutes before he calms and wipes his eyes.

“You done?”

“Yeah,” he grins at her. “I had to turn the tables on you with that one sometime.”

Lucy gets a wicked hair that she can’t help but indulge. Now that Flynn’s gotten out his hysterical reaction, maybe she can provoke a different kind of reaction.

“I don’t know. It sounds like you want to see me get caught and tied up again.”

The spark that had entered his eyes from the laughter abruptly goes out. He reaches out as if to grab her before yanking his hand back and shamefacedly staring at the bed.

“No, I never want you to be at anyone’s mercy like that again. Not ever. I don’t want you to ever be afraid like that again.”

Trust Garcia Flynn to take a damn flirtation as an accusation.

This look hasn’t been on his face in a long time, at least not when she could see, not since the basement in 1954. It cuts her even deeper now to see him like this, a man being burned alive by the flames of his own guilt.

“I’m sorry I ever did that, kidnapped you, made you feel like…and then I went and did it again. I’m sorry Lucy, I…”

He makes a choked noise and, seriously, does their agreement mean she has to sit here and watch him spin out? No, no, it does not, she decides.

“Shh, Garcia.” Lucy puts her finger on his lips and waits.

A second later, he stills and looks to her. She will never get used to that, she doesn’t think. This man, this force of nature, waits for _her_ word. It might be the Rittenhouse princess part of her, or maybe it’s because she has never held that thrall over anyone else, but she enjoys it.

“I forgive you.”

His forehead creases. “But, Lucy.”

“I said shh. None of this is news to me, Garcia. I know our history, don’t I, at least with this me?”

A mere nod is her only response.

“I can’t say that either time you kidnapped me was all okay. But you didn’t hurt me, you didn’t do anything that hasn’t been fixed. We were fighting you while you were trying to follow my future self’s limited, spotty instructions, and you were right before. We _were_ on Rittenhouse’s side, even if we didn’t mean to be. No, I didn’t like it, but I trust you not to do anything like that again, and I understand why you did. I forgive you. Okay?”

She pulls her finger back to let him respond.

“Okay.” He heaves a sigh.

“I was TRYING to keep things easy tonight. This is why I limited this, okay? Not because I need to drag it out and hear a ton of apologies from you. I’ve already forgiven you for all of it—or at least most of it I’m pretty sure—and I don’t need you to drag yourself over hot coals just to have a conversation with me.”

“Okay.”

“Anytime you want to pick another word, feel free.”

“Okay.”

Her eyes roll over to see the corner of his mouth turn up. She leans against him and elbows him in the ribs.

“Can I ask you something now? Or do I need to boss you around some more?”

Flynn waves a hand in invitation.

“Did you ever find out about the Doc? Who she was?”

That does it, finally, he snaps out of whatever this loss for words is. Much as some of his words are, er, poorly chosen, it’s so weird to find him speechless that she can’t stand it.

“No. Who was she?”

“We found her with the Black Panthers. She was born into Rittenhouse. She was a historian, and she was the bookkeeper—she knew the roster, every member, past and, well, the then-present of Rittenhouse, by heart. They don’t write it down.”

“Wait, so…what was she doing? Going dark?”

“Yeah, she had sent her husband and son off to China the year before and she was taking off after them. Rittenhouse was going to kill her. She hadn’t even decided where they were going to try to go from there. But, if…”

“If she’s still alive, she would know all the members. At least up until Watergate.”

“Exactly. Or, if we could somehow identify who the current bookkeeper is and get them to turn…Lucy, this could be huge.”

“Yeah. I didn’t really think of it until we were talking, but I’ll bring it up to Denise.”

They smile at each other. With a potential informant or double-agent in Jessica, if they can get her to turn, maybe she can help them find whoever it is now, not that that’s a guarantee they’ll cooperate. Finding the Doc herself is a long shot, but they’ve had worse. Rufus is living proof. At the very least, it’s an actionable, active plan, and that’s more than they’ve had in forever.

“I’ll help you try to find any trace of her, starting tomorrow.”

Flynn’s perked up now, but there is still tension in the set of his jaw and a slight pinch around his eyes. It’s probably not the safest tactic, considering his emotional state and what the answer might be, but maybe it will help. Plus, she’s curious.

“What did you do once you found out we, um, did what we did?”

“After you tricked both me and Rittenhouse into thinking you were giving us the Doc? Well, we had a shootout, my guys and I killed their men, and I…realized what you did, and I sort of, uh, laughed.”

What? All the bluster about killing Wyatt if he didn’t get her, and then he sat there and laughed?

“I don’t get it. We ruined your plan, you didn’t get the Doc, and you were just pleasantly surprised?”

“I mean, I was frustrated, but Rittenhouse still didn’t get what they wanted. You didn’t trust them, you went against them.” A slow grin spreads across his face. “It was your mind, Lucy. I love the way your mind works.”

The heat in his gaze sends her pulse skittering. There’s amusement there, and admiration, but he usually doesn’t look at her with that level of desire quite so openly. It’s toward her _mind_? That’s what does it for him?

That’s new and refreshing to be wanted for her intelligence, instead of it being seen as a nuisance. Damn, she didn’t need to feel MORE attracted toward him.

“Ahem,” he clears his throat and looks down and as much as that look burned, she wants it BACK.

“I wish I had trusted you more then. If I had brought her to you, maybe you could have gotten the information. She was probably too scared of Rittenhouse to betray anything, but I’m still sorry I didn’t—“

His index finger lands on her lips, and she gasps. The touch is light as a feather, but it makes goosebumps bloom down her arms.

“No unnecessary apologies, Lucy. Alright?”

She can’t speak, so she nods silently. His finger leaves her lips and she has to restrain herself from chasing it, or worse, pulling him down to replace his finger with his mouth. Why isn’t she doing it? She does want this, and she knows he wants it too, though that could have some other layers to it, like the minefield that is his lost family. But she wants it to be real, and she’s not ready to say the words. Jumping in with both feet, without knowing exactly what he’s thinking could hurt both of them.

It’s not until he licks his lips nervously that she realizes she’s been staring at them.

He’s an absolute wreck. His cheeks are pink and it doesn’t look like he’s breathing as he stares down at her. The next second, he’s standing next to the bed.

“I forgot I, uh, I wanted to take a shower tonight instead of the morning. Hot water. So, I’ll see you. In the morning.”

With that, he leaves, not even glancing her way before he shuts the door. Lucy lets herself fall back on the bed and groan out about ten different forms of frustration. If he wants distance, though, she’ll give it to him. She gets up and heads for the door—the one his towel is still hanging on.

The hormonal part of her wants to let him get in the shower and then stick around to found out exactly what he’s going to do afterward, without a towel. But the next second, she grabs it and opens the door. He’s standing right outside.

“Forget something?”

“Uh, yeah.”

When he moves to grab it from her, she doesn’t let go. Instead, she steps closer. If he’s going to run away from this conversation, he can at the very least tell her good night first.

“I think you mean ‘Thank you and goodnight, Lucy’.”

“Thank yo--.”

She wraps her arms around his waist and feels his chest jump as he sucks in air. Standing hugs with him have been rare and quick, but after he lifts his own hands to hold her, she decides to remedy that. His chest feels strong and solid beneath her cheek, though she does feel a faint tremor running through him. And, oh, she feels safe and cared for, like nothing can get to her here. Nothing hurts.

A shudder goes through him. While that warms and delights her no small amount, she takes pity on him and pulls back.

“Goodnight, Garcia.”

“Goodnight,” she hears him whisper, a little delayed, just as she opens her door, and she almost goes back.

But tonight has shown he’s a little fearful of what this is, or of her, or something, and she can’t wave that off. She closes her door.

“I’m in so much trouble.”

                                                                                                                         

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	6. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flynn grieves a significant anniversary, while avoiding Lucy. But Lucy doesn't take avoidance lying down, and she doesn't let anyone grieve alone.

Flynn has been staring at the wall in his safe house room for…he has no idea how long. Hours, certainly. He’s not seeing the room. All he can see is the face of his child the day she was born, as he made the stupid promise that he would always keep her safe.

If he had kept that promise, she would be ten today.

The loss of Lorena hurts terribly of course, though it has dulled over time. It isn’t like _this,_ this gut-wrenching, marrow deep ache that nothing in the world is right, the cold shock every morning that the sun still rises and the earth spins on while his daughter’s precious body lies under its dirt.

Ten. _Ten._

“Are you going to leave?”

He nearly whips his head around at the intrusion, but stops himself in time, wanting to get some semblance of control back before Lucy sees him. He’s more out of it than he thought—he didn’t even hear the door open.

“What?” It comes out as a rasp and he clears his throat.

She steps closer, biting her lip, clenching and unclenching her fists, uncertainty in every line of her body that he watches out of the corner of his eye as she makes her way around to the far side of the bed.

This whole, horrible day, all Flynn has wanted (all that’s in the current realm of possibility) is her.

It didn’t seem fair to ask her to endure him like this, all dark and twisted up with hate and soul-sickness. Not when he has been avoiding her ever since that night he almost kissed her. He still wants to so badly, and it seems she does too. But it hurts to look at her, to touch her, to let her in even closer, knowing that he can lose her just as easily as he’d lost them.

It’s one thing to know that he’s walking himself straight into a likely broken heart. It’s another to know that he might be walking her there, too. She’s his one thing, the one thing he loves that he still has, and he can’t, he can’t, _he can’t_ lose her.

“What did you say?”

“You’ve been avoiding me for days. If you’re going to leave, could you at least tell me first?” The barely-disguised desperation in her voice tears at him.

“Lucy, I’m not leaving.” How can she even think he could? How is she so unsure, when he wears his love for her so obviously that it couldn’t be clearer if he had “Lucy’s lovestruck idiot” tattooed across his forehead?

“Then why?” When he doesn’t answer, he can almost feel her blush. “Oh, I see. Um, I can back off if you need some space. I don’t want to make you uncom—what’s _wrong_?”

Lucy has made her way directly in front of him. Now that she can really see him, there’s no hiding anything. She perches lightly on the edge of the bed and waits.

“It’s…” he can’t force the words out, so he hopes she’s as sharp with more recent dates as she is with historical ones. “It’s May 26th.” He squeezes his eyes shut. Ten. She would be _ten._

“May… _oh_.”

He tries to make a sound of acknowledgement but it comes out as a strangled sob instead. Despite his closed eyes, he knows she is wavering, her hands fluttering in indecision, before one gingerly lands on his shoulder.

“Do you want to be alone?”

No, _please,_ no. Flynn has been alone, alone, _alone,_ for the past four—almost five—years now. He’d refused to mourn Lorena and Iris during his planning phase for time travel and then when he’d had the mothership. Finally, he’d been forced to: stuck in prison for life, alone without any hope of saving them. While he knows he’s kept a good face on it, kept a tiny flame of hope burning…he doesn’t see it anymore. He can’t see any way to save them, not without a million other things going even worse. It used to be that he could ignore that, but now…he hates himself for not being able to throw away the world for them.

It’s his fault, it’s all his fault that she isn’t here. His head shakes once in answer. He doesn’t deserve to be comforted, but he can’t help but lean into it, lean into Lucy, and he grabs her hand like the lifeline it is. Most days he is able to lock into spy/soldier mode and use the pain as fuel for the fight, but today he isn’t Flynn. He’s just Garcia, the heartbroken, daughterless father.

He’s never been as thankful for their unspoken conversations as he is now, when Lucy hauls herself up beside him and runs her fingers through his hair. It’s exactly what he needs. It’s so gentle and it’s been so long since he’s been touched so softly, solely for his own sake, that he breaks.

However long the storm lasts Flynn doesn’t know. The only thing that matters is that Lucy doesn’t leave for a second. When it finally passes and he can breathe again, his head is pillowed in her lap and her hands are still in his hair.

The awkwardness hits when he finally pulls back and realizes he’s been clinging to her waist with a death grip. Drained and exhausted, he leans back against the headboard next to her and pulls his handkerchief from his pocket to clean himself up.

“Do you need anything?”

Truthfully, his throat is dry and scratchy and he could use some water, but he needs her presence more.

“No, but…could you stay?”

He’s looking at his hands, but he feels her eyes on him.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Risking a glance, he sees that her sweater is now a total mess, thanks to him.

“I, uh…your top.” He gestures at her, expecting her to leave to change. He’s tempted to beg her not to, but he holds his tongue and blushes instead.

“Oh, no problem.” She lifts the hem and starts to pull it over her head and he jerks his eyes away.

Lucy lets out an amused breath. “I’m wearing a shirt under it, your tender eyes are safe.”

He’s too numb and hollowed out from the tears to appropriately react to the sight of her in a tank top, all creamy skin and graceful lines. Then she moves closer and their arms press together, hers bare and his mostly bare below his t-shirt sleeve, and he almost falls apart again.

“If it’s too hard, you don’t have to. But I’d like to hear about Iris, if you want to talk about her.”

There’s a quivering moment when he pauses, afraid. He doesn’t want to release the pieces of his daughter that he’s kept wrapped up in his heart, afraid he won’t be able to retrieve them once they’re free. It’s Lucy, though, who has trusted him with everything, and to whom he has entrusted Iris’s salvation.

“She was my everything,” is how Flynn starts, and he doesn’t mean to say more than that. The floodgates have opened, however, and it all comes pouring out. How Lorena’s labor had been long and difficult and she’d been ordered to bed for three weeks after. He had mainly been the one to rock and cuddle and console Iris against his bare chest, terrified that he didn’t know what he was doing. How she had taken forever to crawl but said her first words at six months and never stopped talking from then on. How she was unbelievably grumpy in the morning and refused to eat anything but his blueberry pancakes for breakfast for a solid four months when she was three. How she’d made him watch Tangled so many times that he could probably still sing all the songs, because she liked that Eugene went by their last name. How she’d demanded he sing Bye Bye Blackbird every night before she would sleep.

Lucy listens with tears in her eyes, laughing in all the right places. With each admission, it feels like a bit of the venom is sucked out of the wound. Bottling it up had been wrong. He’s talked of Lorena some, but not of Iris, and she deserves to be remembered as a whole person rather than to be reduced to her death.

Into the stillness after he’s done with his purging, Lucy finally asks, “What were you saying before?”

“Hmm?”

“You kept repeating something over and over, before. It wasn’t English.”

“Oh.” He’d not realized he’d been speaking aloud while he was crying, but there’s only one thing it could have been. He swipes a hand across his chin, not really wanting to answer, but knowing he’s going to anyway. “I was saying I failed her.” His head bows under the shame of it as she sucks in a deep breath.

“Garcia Flynn, you did NOT fail Iris.” Lucy’s voice rings with steel and he wishes he could believe her, but all he can see in his mind’s eye is the tiny, broken body.

“Hey! Look at me,” she gently but firmly grasps his chin and turns his face toward her own. “You did not fail her. All any child wants is to be loved, and no one who knows any of the truth can say you didn’t love your daughter. You’ve gone to the ends of the earth to save her, you’ve fought TIME to save her. Even if it doesn’t work, you haven’t failed her. Do you know what I would give for my mother to have loved me like that? What I would give to have anybody who would do that for me?”

The stark truth of her words is plain in her face. He knows she’s right, even though it doesn’t quite feel true. God, how he loved Iris, loves Iris, will always, _always_ love her, as long as there is breath in his body. Longer. And she had known and trusted his love and his strength; she’d had such utter, pure faith in him. She just hadn’t known that sometimes the monsters are bigger, scarier, and tougher than her dad, who is so terribly, disgustingly human.

Feeling older than time itself, Flynn sighs deeply and lets his face slump until their foreheads touch. It hits him then, how the tables have turned, and how they truly are now, in every sense, a team. When he opens his eyes, the memory of Chinatown is swimming in her eyes too. He doesn’t say anything, but she must read the gratitude and the half-apology, because she shrugs.

“It’s what we do.”

A yawn catches him off guard then and she stands up and off the bed, pulling his covers down.

Her moving away from him feels like ripping a bandage off a still bleeding cut. He stands up, turning away as he bites his lip, before starting to climb into his bed.

His bed, which is already occupied by a tiny historian.

Any other night, there would be a bit more panic and a lot of other, more positive emotions at this development. He’s too wrung out for that tonight.

A token protest should probably be made, but instead he lies down on his side and takes her in. She stubbornly meets his gaze, daring him to send her away.

“Is this also what we do?” He tries to joke, half-heartedly smirking, and hopes she misses the hopeful note.

Lucy rolls her eyes at him as she blushes. “What we do is…help each other. Be there for each other. If you want me to go…”

“You know I don’t, as long as you’re sure.” He reaches up to turn off the light. Hovering on his side awkwardly, he stalls. “Are you cold? I can loan you a sweater.”

“I’ll be fine.”

She slides over then, nudging him onto his back, and lays her head on his shoulder. Okay, so maybe he’s not too numb to feel _anything._ He can’t be a total failure, not if he’s won the care of a woman like this. He still doesn’t know _how_ , except that she has more compassion than anyone he’s ever known, but she has repeatedly chosen to spend it, and her time, on him. Deserving it is impossible, but dammit, he’s going to try.

His heart still aches with every beat, but for once his arms aren’t empty. He thankfully shuts his dry, gritty eyes. The darkness is still there, but Lucy always pushes it further out, like a lit match.

“What you said before, about wanting anyone to be willing to go that far for you?”

She sighs in response. “I know, the team loves me, they’d do their best.” She doesn’t seem to quite believe it, though he thinks it IS true, but that wasn’t his point.

“ _I_ would.”

Flynn waits for her to argue, to question it, but instead she leans up and kisses him on the cheek before settling her head back against him. One of his hands slides into her hair as acknowledgement that he hears what she isn’t saying: _I know, thank you, and I would too._

She curls in closer, lays a hand on his chest, and falls asleep. As usual, he follows her.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think!


	7. Are We There Yet?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...are you ever still afraid of me?"
> 
> "I'm not just Rittenhouse, I'm _A_ Rittenhouse."
> 
> Flynn and Lucy flirt and then tackle their biggest remaining hurdles, finding more acceptance than they expect.

Lucy sinks back onto Flynn’s bed with a groan and shoves her damp towel under her leg to keep any blood off Flynn’s blanket. It seems to be drying up, at least.

It’s only a scrape this time, but she’d also tweaked her wrist in the fall. The fact that she’s waiting for him to come back from his shower to help her clean it up is per his request. They’d been on a run when she’d tripped over a root or rock or hole (she doesn’t care what Flynn says, there was SOMETHING there) and gone flying.

They ended up walking back, though she told him she was fine, and even that was a compromise. He had offered to carry her, several times, at first to her amusement and then her annoyance when he got more insistent. She’s fine, seriously, but he’d practically ordered her to clean it in the shower and wait for him to come check and bandage it, to make sure there’s no debris.

She could do it herself, but it really bothers him that she got hurt on his watch, so to speak, even though she’s only a victim of her own clumsiness this time.

Flynn comes in then, all damp and fresh from the shower. He’s fully clothed, but she can’t help her eyes trailing over him and wanting…well, _wanting._ A small stash of first aid supplies fills his hands, and he sits on the bed, pulling her legs into his lap. The sting as he starts to dab her knee with a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide helps distract her from his touch on her calf. For a soldier with such large hands, he’s unbelievably gentle. Sometimes it’s so easy to picture him as a father.

She looks at him in lieu of mentioning it, and as her eyes fall on his legs, she can’t help but laugh a little.

“What?” He smiles up at her.

“I was just thinking this heat wave is the first time I think I’ve seen your legs.”

He laughs then, loud and full, and she grins back.

“Well, we are always in the past and the bunker was cold, so yeah, I guess this is the first time I’ve worn shorts in front of you. How sad for you, they’re my best feature.”

“You’re delusional,” she said through laughter.

“You’re saying you don’t like my legs, Lucy?”

“I’m saying…” she thinks about deflecting, but decides she’s feeling bold. “I’m saying I think your arms are your _best_ feature.”

Flynn smirks and has what is probably going to be a sassy reply ready until he looks at her and realizes she is serious. His cheeks turn pink and she feels a slight answering heat in her own. His blush is so damn endearing.

“Or maybe your smile. You’ve got a nice smile.”

“Uh, thank you.” With even darker cheeks now, he stares down at the supplies he brought and grabs an ice pack before activating it, wrapping it in her towel and gently moving her wrist onto it. While he’s embarrassed, he’s also pleased and trying to fight a smile that is tugging at his mouth.

“What’s mine?”

Damn, these questions pop out now before she can stop herself. The question hits him and he’s taken aback for a moment, but then he surprises her by looking her straight in the face and answering.

“There’s not a part of you that isn’t completely lovely, Lucy.”

The admiration in his gaze rushes over her in a scalding wave. Is this it? Is this when they finally crack?

“Ahem,” he clears his throat and she finds no relief in the broken tension, only disappointment. Grabbing the gauze, he unwinds and tapes it into place.

Maybe he’s not ready? Or maybe, as much as he wants her—she _knows_ he does, he’s not even hiding it anymore—but wanting her and deciding to do something about it don’t necessarily go hand in hand.

He puts the last piece of tape in place and goes to throw out the trash before plopping down next to her with a sigh.

“That certainly counts as your question.”

His rueful look makes her giggle. “Yes, yes it does.”

“You know, I think this is the first time I’ve seen your legs, too. You’re always in long dresses or stockings on missions, and it hasn’t been hot here until now.”

“Huh.” That’s probably true. She thinks back. There was definitely a shorter skirt at NASA, but she hadn’t even seen him on that trip, and in France and Texas, she did have stockings. “Did you not see me in Vegas?”

He stares off. “I saw only a flash of you during the firefight. Not enough to see what you were wearing.”

“At least I was wearing the waitress uniform and not the cigarette girl one Rufus originally snatched for me. It was longer, even with the slit.” Not that it stopped drunk assholes from grabbing her.

“Unfortunately, I didn’t get to see that.” He scrubs his hand over his face, rubbing his chin, visibly working up courage.

“What?” The tension is almost killing her, and she’s about to say to hell with it and jump him.

“Can I ask, speaking of that time…are you ever still afraid of me?” He mumbles it out, staring down at the fraying quilt.

For a second, she isn’t sure she heard him properly. Afraid of him? The next instant, she tries to hold it back, but laughter bubbles up inside her and she claps a hand over her mouth and looks down at her own lap to hide it. She doesn’t want to offend him. But seriously? How could he possibly…

“Oh, God, Lucy, I’m—I’m sorry. I’m not ever going to hurt you, but I know you don’t have a reason to believe that or at least to not have the memory of that fear and I…”

A blast of laughter spills out of her, unrestrained, even as she realizes he couldn’t see her face and probably assumed she was hiding her upset instead of mirth. It takes her a couple minutes, but she manages to get some control back to look at his flabbergasted face. She bites her lip against another chuckle that threatens to spill out.

“I just…sorry, but…OF COURSE I’m not afraid of you. I mean, look at me, Garcia.”

He stares at her face like he used to when they were fighting, like he can’t decide between consternation and awe.

“No, Garcia, LOOK at me,” she corrects, gesturing down her body. He raises an eyebrow, but obediently inspects her from head to toe. It is probably not the time, but she thrills at how can feel his eyes trail over her like a warm caress, even as they return to her face and she can still see the bewilderment in them.

Lucy shakes her head. She’d almost gotten used to not being exasperated with him.

“I am alone in your room with you, in my pajamas, on your bed with you, voluntarily, and I do that almost every night. Half the time, I fall asleep in your arms. What does that say to you? Because it certainly doesn’t say I’m afraid.”

Her heart picks up in speed as she throws herself into this, not waffling because of how that sounds. If he doesn’t get that she’s not afraid, nothing will ever happen between them. When did that become the worst possibility here? She’s not sure, but what they’re growing into getting cut down before it ever gets to blossom is now scarier to her than how it might end.

Flynn swallows hard as he struggles, then stills and bows his head.

“You’re sure? Not even when you think about…?” Unable to say the words, he grazes her forearm with one finger and then gestures toward her neck, too hesitant to touch.

“Not even then.”

He’s staring at his hands again, and her heart aches for him as she knows he’s replaying it in his head, thinking of every possible thing that he could have done differently. She slips her hand into his and threads their fingers to remind him that though yes, his hands have committed many violent acts, but they also save and protect and hold and comfort. As much as his hands have been used to punch and fire and stab, they have also cuddled a baby and changed diapers, they’ve held Lucy up both figuratively and literally, and have saved far more lives than her own.

He tightens his hold loosely with his long fingers still mostly open, like he’s afraid she’s going to snatch her hand back.

“Not even after I tried to kill you, Wyatt, and Rufus multiple times?”

She abandons the plan where she replies “no” to each of these not evens, because they’ll be here all night.

“You know, I don’t buy it. Not completely.”

It’s gratifying that even when he jerks back to give her his best _what the hell are you talking about?_ look, he doesn’t release her hand.

“Huh?”

She almost laughs at him again, now that he’s reduced to monosyllables.

“If you had truly meant to kill me, I’d be dead. I’m not sure you were trying that hard to kill Wyatt or Rufus, either, because you didn’t succeed, but me? I know you weren’t trying to kill me.”

Flynn had every chance to kill them all. Yeah, they’d been able to stop him from completely carrying out his missions, but that was because he DID have a line he wouldn’t cross, and she’d realized very early on that line was her.

He doesn’t answer, but she’s not doing the tentative thing anymore. If they’re talking about this, they’re talking about it.

“Okay, so, did you ever mean to kill me? Or even hurt me?”

She’d forgive him even if he had. Which is crazy, though par for the course of how insane her life has become. But she _knows_ him, and she’s known this for a long time, before she had any reason to know it, long ago enough that she’d told herself repeatedly she was stupid for believing it.

He shakes his head and makes a sound like he’s choking back words.

“No,” he breathes. “I never did. But I let you think I would, and I know I _did_ scare you.”

“You did. I was told such lies about you. Even after I knew they weren’t true, I was scared of what you might do—to history, and to Wyatt and Rufus—but not to me.”

He pulls his hand from hers and she doesn’t reach for it back, though she feels bereft without it.

“How? The night I killed Lincoln, I picked you up by the neck and threw you, Lucy, and I nearly got you killed over and over…I kidnapped you.”

“You did. I forgave you for the kidnapping, and with Lincoln, you didn’t hurt me that night, but yes, you did scare me.”

“I know, and I…I was so shocked to see you there, and I knew Grant and Robert Todd Lincoln were there, with guns, and you threw yourself right in the middle of us. I had to get you out of the way, and I was trying to follow other-you’s orders in the journal and I panicked. I’m sorry, Lucy. How can you…?”

“How can I trust you?” She asks when he doesn’t finish. “I just…from the beginning, there was this…” she still doesn’t know what to call it. “Connection. I knew you wouldn’t hurt me. There were times I second-guessed whether or not I was wrong about that, but I _knew_ you wouldn’t. You’d coerce me and argue with me, sure, but you never hurt me.”

His head is bowed and she can’t see if her words are having any effect, so she continues.

“That night, with John Rittenhouse, you were so angry, but you couldn’t bring yourself to kill me, and I knew you wouldn’t. That’s why I got between you. I was still terrified of what you’d have me do, what you’d do to him, but after that…I knew for sure you would never hurt me. I have a suspicion that your men weren’t allowed to hurt me either. They seemed like they wanted to, but they never did.”

Flynn reluctantly lifts his head and nods once before slowly replying.

“There might have been a standing order not to hurt you, no matter what threats I made in front of you. But, uh, that’s not the whole story. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I put you in a lot of positions that could have gotten you killed. I didn’t understand. I trusted you’d get out of them alright because you did in the journal, but I still did that. That night with John, I was angrier at myself than I was at you. I was furious because I still couldn’t bring myself to kill you. I was mad that you already mattered that much, even though you weren’t how I thought you’d be.”

“I thought it might have been the Rittenhouse thing.”

“Because of Cahill being your father?”

Oh, God, he doesn’t know. He really doesn’t know. Shit.

“I…” she sucks in air hard and hopes she won’t lose that peanut butter and jelly sandwich she’d scarfed down earlier. “I…when Rittenhouse had me, when my mother…”

She hasn’t talked about that time at all, not even to him. She still doesn’t want to say the words, doesn’t want to speak them aloud and make them real. But he’s there and looking at her with such concern. Will this change that?

Is it fair to hold it back, even if it will?

If the devotion he feels for her is real, it should hold up to even this. After all, her devotion holds up to an awful lot, as he’s making a point of proving tonight even if that’s not his intent, and it’s still intact. So, damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead.

“The reason I couldn’t find John Rittenhouse was that he changed his name, and…with marriages and everything, over time the name changed, but it eventually became Keynes and then it—it became Preston. When Emma calls me princess, she’s…that’s why. I’m not just Rittenhouse, I’m _A_ Rittenhouse.”

The words taste like ashes in Lucy’s mouth. She can’t look, she can’t. If he’s going to hate her, seeing it will be too much. It hurt terribly enough before, when he was arrested and thought she’d betrayed him, but now he’s so dear to her that it might fully break her heart.

“Oh, God, Lucy,” he whispers, sounding sicker than she even feels and her heart thuds as it hits the floor. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t tell anyone.” Her voice is thin and reedy and she hates how obvious it is that she’s holding back tears. “I didn’t want it to be real. I didn’t want this ugly thing to be inside me, I didn’t want…” She almost equivocates and says she didn’t want them all to hate her, which is true, but that hadn’t been her true fear. “I didn’t want you to hate me.”

“Hey.” The softness is still there in his voice and she closes her eyes as it wraps her up. “I _can’t_ hate you, that’s what we’ve both been saying tonight, you already know I can’t. _Every_ part of you is lovely, not just the outside. But it’s a lot. I…it’s just hard to wrap my head around, Lucy.”

“Yeah,” she says wryly and sniffs. The aftermath of that fear is making her shake. “I know.”

He grabs her hand back then, and tugs until she looks up at him. “I was already glad you stopped me. Now…thank God you stopped me, Lucy. I’d…I don’t know what I would’ve done if I had made you disappear. Thank you.”

Maybe it’s that _this_ is his first thought, maybe it’s that he is still there touching her and proving that nothing has changed. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at her with something less like awe, something far more fond, maybe it’s that she hasn’t stopped thinking about it for weeks now, but the next thing she knows, she is kissing him.

When she realizes it, she panics for a split-second. Then he lets out a soft sound as his lips open against hers and she forgets that they haven’t talked about this, forgets to be upset about her Rittenhouse lineage, forgets that Rittenhouse even exists. Her world narrows down to the tiniest bubble in this tiny room and Flynn fills it up, a whole world existing where their breath and mouths meet. He’s everywhere, his hands in her hair, on her back, on her face. His mouth is against hers and under hers and over hers, desperate and soft and pliant and warm.

It would always have been passionate if and when they kissed, whether when they were fighting or when they were friends or now. Oh boy, is it, but it’s also happy and bubbly and _right, so damn right_ , and it’s the first time she’s felt at home in years. It’s familiar somehow, the dance they do, the way they push and pull and fight and cede dominance back and forth, over and over.

Is this how this is supposed to feel? Because she’s felt desire and happiness in a first kiss before, but this is so much more, so much deeper—while it’s heavy and hot, it’s still comforting and comfortable. Perhaps it’s because they already know each other so well, or...

There’s heat, _so much heat,_ building inside her, but she can’t even focus on it. His mouth is too enjoyable, as is the way he’s taking his time, like he’s memorizing every square inch of her lips and tongue and mouth. His arms feel even better than she expected under her hands, but she abandons them to run her fingers through his hair to tug his face closer. Her wrist throbs, but she can’t care, not when he groans at that and she can feel it rumble through his chest into her own. How and when did she get in his lap? Nope, it doesn’t matter, she’s simply going to enjoy how they’re so delightfully close and press herself tighter against him. One hand slides low on her hip and grips hard and oh, they should probably talk before this goes any further, but that would require that she stop kissing him, and no way in hell is she doing that. It’s too damn delicious and addictive.

She’s starting to work up the ability to separate herself from him for only the time it would take to pull back and lie down on the bed when he yanks away from her with a gasp. An embarrassingly whiny protest starts to come out of her before Flynn holds up a finger for her to wait. She hears it then, a knock that’s becoming more and more frantic, and she throws herself off him like a teenager getting caught by mom.

Which she kind of is, she realizes when she hears Denise call out “Flynn?”

“Yeah?” His voice is gravelly and frustrated and she hopes it sounds like he’s irritated that they got interrupted in the middle of a game of checkers or a stimulating…conversation, but she’s pretty sure Denise is too astute to think that.

“We got a message from Jessica, there’s a problem. We’re meeting in the living room in five. I assume you’ll, uh, ‘find’ Lucy and pass the message along?”

Seriously, the air quotes are audible, and Lucy squirms like a naughty child.

“Yeah, sure,” Flynn says with a crack in his voice and such unconvincing nonchalance that she has to stifle an unholy giggle.

They stay frozen in place until they hear the floorboards creak with Denise’s retreat. When she’s gone, Flynn lets out such a deep sigh that Lucy can’t help but laugh again. She’s doing that a lot tonight, often does with him, and it’s almost as wonderful as the kissing. Almost.

“You done?” He smirks at her when she pauses for breath.

“Yeah.”

She smiles and his smirk softens into her favorite smile, the one that makes his eyes go all soft and she can see straight through them to his heart.

They sit there, grinning at each other like idiots, for probably a full minute before she bites her swollen lip and looks away nervously.

“Flynn, I…”

“Lucy, if you say you’re sorry, I swear I—“

She guesses he can’t think of anything, because then he’s kissing her, firm but soft. It’s over far too fast, and she can’t help but lean in, pressing their noses and foreheads together.

“I was only going to say I guess we have to go, and that we should probably talk about this later.”

“Yeah, we probably should.” Flynn nods and moves to stand up.

Lucy follows him to the door, but stops him, pulling him down to neaten his hair from where she’d messed it up. The look he gives her threatens to melt her into the floor, and he tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear.

She feels the loss as he gestures her through the door, clearly attempting the “nothing to see here” that no one has believed before and certainly won’t now that they’re looking like this. Flynn’s hair is neater now, but his color is high, his lips are swollen, and she’s sure she’s no better. So, why try? She puts a hand out and barely brushes his arm with a finger, and he immediately stops. Oh, how she loves that. Stepping up next to him, she pulls his right arm behind her to place his hand in the small of her back before she starts them walking again.

“I’m not sorry, Garcia,” she whispers after they make it down the stairs. He strokes his fingers across her back in answer, and she can feel him smiling down at her without even looking.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and please let me know what you think!


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